Clever Magazine, Summer '07 " Motel Camping " (www.clevermag.com)

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Motel Camping

creative non-fiction by
Terry Sanville

Terry lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife, Marguerite Costigan (his in-house editor), and two cats (his in-house critics). He is also an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist. Since 2000, Terry’s stories have been accepted for publication by GRIT Magazine, BEGINNINGS, R-kv-ry Journal, The Circle Magazine, Falling Star Magazine, Pipes & Timbrels Journal, Distant Echoes Journal, Wanderings, The Red Dirt Review, Foliate Oak, Tales From the Corner Anthology, a Kearney Street Books Anthology, Storyteller, The Arabesques Review, The War Journal, The Catnip Chronicles, The Noo Journal, The Scruffy Dog Review, and by the About Alzheimer’s Association.

“Is it in?” my wife asked, wheezing.

“Yeah, but I can’t turn it. The knob is too close to the jamb.”

I clutched a styrofoam ice chest and blindly fumbled with the key in our motel door. Marguerite groaned and let our bulging suitcase and her art supply bag slip to the ground. We had arrived in Springdale, Utah after a mind numbing nine-hour drive from San Luis Obispo, California. But the towering orange monoliths of Zion National Park blazing in the late October sunlight reenergized our spirits.

The door finally gave way. We stumbled inside to set up house for six days of exploring and painting. We’ve both entered our geezer years or “advanced middle age,” as U.S. demographers call it. So youthful tent camping has been gradually replaced with chilled Chardonnay, delicious restaurant meals, and soft motel beds after hours spent hiking through the wilderness. But motel camping is not without its challenges.

Insertions. I prefer metal keys over those magnetized credit card types used by larger motels. Once in Port Angeles, Washington I sprinted the fifty-yard dash in a thunderstorm, back and forth to the check-in desk before I got a remagnetized key that worked. And then there’s the problem of mistakenly using the key at the gas station and having the card reader eat it. Or is that just me?

Choosing Sides. I used to sleep on the same side of a motel bed as the side I occupy at home. But that doesn’t work now that nighttime bathroom visits are routine. At home it’s a left then a quick right to reach the potty. One night in Cooke City, Montana I did my left-then-quick-right and almost peed on our luggage. Now before going to sleep I scrutinize our room, noting the relationship of the lit digital clock or the microwave’s flashing timer to the bathroom. They are my north stars guiding me during moments of need.

Getting Wet: What's so complicated about a shower with individual controls for hot and cold water? Evidently this traditional design has befuddled the masses because the motel industry now uses a solitary lever or knob that manages both volume and temperature. Unfortunately each one is different -- some turn to the left, others to the right. Some push in, others pull out. And still others require depressing a plunger on the tub spout. I usually let Marguerite take her shower first, after which she briefs me on proper shower operations. And knowing how to turn it off quickly is essential. Once in White's City, New Mexico, the rooms surrounding ours must have simultaneously flushed their toilets. I barely escaped a scalding of parts unmentionable.

Fun with Toilets. Like showers, every motel uses a different model. I’ve learned to be circumspect with the “water saving” types and perform a test flush or two before using them. There are few things more embarrassing then sneaking to the office late at night in your bathrobe, requesting the use of a toilet plunger and having the night clerk ask, “Do you think you can do it, or should I?”

Remote Controls. When I watch television at home I effortlessly dance between channels, control volume, and mute the commercials. But evidently there is no such thing as a truly “universal remote.” Every motel campout requires learning a new keypad. Once in St. George, Utah I kept pressing the mute button and was repeatedly shifted to a Vegas mud-wrestling channel. Marguerite got mad after the third time, claimed I was doing it on purpose. Honest, I wasn’t.

Neighbors. If a motel has two or more floors, choosing a top floor end room will reduce potential noise problems. But a top floor room requires hauling all our stuff up stairs or into stuffy elevators of questionable ancestry. Being lazy, we ask for a first level end room. Last night the couple above us skidded the small circular table across the tiled floor to the center of their room. A brief interlude of thumping and creaking followed. Marguerite covered her face, afraid plaster might rain down. I contemplated rapping the ceiling with my umbrella but decided their ruckus was justifiable payback for my evening guitar rehearsal.

There are many other elements of motel camping to be tolerated – maid intrusions, single ply toilet paper, soap smelling like skunk oil. But for the dedicated motel camper, soft beds, indoor plumbing, and exciting evening entertainment are available at reasonable prices. So remind me again why shivering on the ground in a sleeping bag while bears eat your food is so great? Ah, youth.